The Lost Daughter: A Memoir (9 page)

Vanessa had lots of friends but her best buddy was an African-American girl named Gigi. The three of us would spend a lot of time hanging out at Vanessa’s favorite restaurant, a deli that made her favorite dish—bagels and lox. Afterward we’d go visit Vanessa’s father, Roger Vadim, at his funky little apartment that he shared with his girlfriend, a slim, raven-haired beauty. The apartment was small but light-filled and cluttered in a way that gave the place charm: lots of photos and book piles, eclectic furniture. I felt at ease in Vadim’s place and in his presence. He was a man who loved females and had a knack for making us feel admired and welcome, especially Vanessa. His face lit up whenever she was around and I understood why she spent so much time with him.

Gigi and I spent a lot of time together with Vanessa right before she went off to Brown University at the age of sixteen. We were all very proud of her. I missed her terribly when she left, but knew we’d be together again when the holidays rolled around. Little did I know we’d see her sooner than that. One afternoon Jane, some of her friends and I came home to find a large package sitting in the hall. Her friends told Jane it was a gift from them. When Jane opened the box, Vanessa popped out with a big smile and a hug for her startled mother. Jane’s friends had secretly flown Vanessa out from the East Coast for a surprise visit. She knew how to make an entrance.

I’d learn years later that Vanessa resented her mother for bringing me into the family. She felt my presence took up time that she desperately wanted from her mother. But to Vanessa’s credit, she never once took out her frustrations on me. On the contrary, she bent over backward to make me feel accepted and was the first to proudly introduce me to her friends as her sister.

In addition to using money earned making movies to support various causes, Jane and Tom often threw star-studded fundraisers at the house. They were fun events and I loved to stand on the sidelines and watch as a procession of my favorite movie stars strolled into the house one after another. For one event that was raising money for antiapartheid efforts in South Africa, Bishop Desmond Tutu was on hand. The party guests included Oprah Winfrey, Quincy Jones, Robert Downey Jr., Daryl Hannah, Jackson Browne, Marisa Tomei and Rae Dawn Chong. I’d dart out of the shadows every now and then with my notepad and a pen collecting autographs. Jane would transform at these events. She’d shed her sweats and don a pretty party dress. Her speech was punctuated with “Fabulous!” and “Marvelous!” She became a true Hollywood diva, dazzling her guests into loosening their purse strings for a worthy cause.

Paparazzi would buzz around the front gate like flies, snapping pictures of the guests coming and going. Crowds of fans would gather outside too. I’d wander out to marvel at the spectacle, and often fans would beg me to take in an 8x10-inch photo of Jane from her classic film
Barbarella
or some other photo for her to sign. I was all too happy to take them to Jane, and she was always happy to sign. When she was busy, I’d sign her name myself, not to be mischievous but to avoid having to tell the fan I couldn’t get a signature. They seemed to always know it wasn’t her signature and threw dirty looks at me for ruining their photos.

These parties took a lot out of Jane. At the end of the evening when the last of the stars walked or stumbled out the door, Jane would kick off her shoes and collapse onto the big sofa. I’d sidle up next to her and we’d discuss the evening. She’d ask if I thought it looked like everyone was enjoying the evening. I’d give my opinion and she’d listen intently, taking in every observation.

To get me off the couch, Jane would often take me to work with her at her production company in a little two-story building not too far from the house. She and her team produced films like
9 to 5
and
On Golden Pond
. It was in her office that I first came face to face with an honest-to-God Oscar. I stood in the doorway to her office stunned to see not one but two of the statuettes sitting on a shelf. She’d won them for Best Actress in
Klute
and
Coming Home
. I reached out and grabbed each one in my hands, awed by the heft and beauty of them. Jane smiled at me as I stood there with a statue in each fist.

Then she told me a funny story about Katharine Hepburn. Ms. Hepburn starred with her and her father in
On Golden Pond
and won her fourth Oscar, to Jane’s two, for her work in the film. A few days after her win, Jane discovered that Ms. Hepburn had a very competitive side when she called Jane and cackled triumphantly into the phone, “You’ll never catch me now!”

I’d spend the day listening in on meetings she’d hold with her producers. I was especially excited when she told me she was thinking of remaking the old black-and-white classic
All About Eve
, about a famous aging stage actress who is backstabbed by a young actress she takes under her wing. We watched the film together one evening, which heralded the beginning of my lifelong love affair with black-and-white films and the indomitable Bette Davis. Jane was to take on the Bette Davis role and she told me she was going to hold a meeting with Madonna, whom she was considering for the role of the scheming ingénue played in the film deliciously by a young Anne Baxter. Madonna was a rising star at the time and I begged Jane to introduce me to her. Unfortunately the project fell through.

To keep me occupied, Jane also sent me to aerobics classes at her successful Jane Fonda Workout studio. She had me outfitted in tights, leotards, leg warmers and the modified off-the-shoulder sweatshirts á la
Flashdance
. I’d be the only black girl in a class of skinny white women jumping around and feeling the burn. The classes became addictive and I’d sometimes do two a day. I got so into working out I’d often wear my leotards out and about as if they were street clothes. For a while it was a status symbol for folks to see how seriously you took your workout. Strolling into a supermarket in a sweat-stained leotard showing off your fit body was all the rage, and I jumped on the bandwagon for a time.

One day Tom invited me to accompany him and Troy on a visit to his office at the capitol building in Sacramento. Tom was a state assemblyman at the time and I was excited to see the state capitol. We all flew up together and that evening we went out to dinner at a restaurant with a few of Tom’s colleagues. I remember the restaurant was a steakhouse and the décor was leather and dark reds and greens, like a rich man’s drawing room. I don’t remember much about the conversation. The most memorable part of the evening was watching Tom interact with Troy. Troy sat close to his father, who stroked his back and bent to kiss him on the top of his head from time to time. His pet name for Troy was Sweetie. As the hour grew late and Troy began to doze off, Tom cradled him and gently rocked him as he continued his conversation. I found the whole scene heartbreakingly tender and intimate. I’d never seen a father be so openly affectionate with a child.

Troy and I spent the following afternoon playing Frisbee on the capitol lawn and watching a woman’s miniature Doberman chase and be chased by the aggressive gray squirrels that patrolled the lawn raiding the blankets of unwitting picnickers. When it got too hot, we took our game of Frisbee indoors, tossing it up and down the halls. Then Troy threw me the Frisbee when I wasn’t paying attention and it hit me in the nose, causing it to bleed. Troy was immediately remorseful. A staffer witnessed the incident and made a big deal of having me fill out an incident report, which he insisted must be filled out whenever an injury occurred on state property. We were scared of what Tom would think when he found out we’d been roughhousing in the halls and instigated an incident report. But when Tom was informed, he laughed and told us to be careful next time.

On the last evening of our visit, Tom took us to a social gathering. It was held in a large room in an official-looking building. Most of the attendees were older white men. After I took a bathroom break, I couldn’t see Tom and Troy anywhere when I came out. I searched for them in the crowded room. All the while I could feel a panic attack coming on. I gave up my search and ran out into the street to escape the collapsing room and the men who were beginning to look more and more ominous. Even after I calmed down, I couldn’t gather the nerve to go back inside. So I sat on the steps outside and waited for Tom and Troy to come out. I learned later they were both looking for me, too, and were worried that something had happened to me. They were relieved to find me unharmed on the steps. When we got home, Tom told Jane about the incident.

Jane worried about me. Though I was getting out more, I still had trouble making friends and suffered from nightmares and panic attacks. She suspected my nightmares, panic attacks and bouts of agoraphobia stemmed from a form a PTSD I got from the rape. So, soon after the incident in Sacramento she signed me up to start seeing a therapist again. She even sat in on the first few sessions with me. The therapist was a well-meaning African-American woman, but I lost patience with her when she asked me, “How did being raped make you feel?” I responded with, “How do you think it made me feel? It sucked!” I could see that Jane was tickled by my response to the stupid question and she congratulated me for speaking my mind.

Though I continued with therapy, I found the most rewarding conversations about my inner turmoil took place on the two-hour drives Jane, Troy and I would take from Santa Monica to Laurel Springs nearly every weekend. True to form, within twenty minutes of hitting the Pacific Coast Highway, Troy was knocked out in the backseat and would stay that way for the duration of the trip.

Jane and I would pass the time talking about how I was coping with the change, my fears and my plans for the future. I told her a lot of things still scared me—sleeping alone, crowds. Sometimes I’d say things that made her cry. Like how I found it odd that Jane and Tom did not beat their children. Didn’t all parents beat their children? I was also a sounding board for her and listened as she shared her thoughts with me. At the halfway point we usually pulled off the highway in a little town that had an ice cream shop that made date shakes. We’d all get one and stretch our legs before continuing up the coast, sliding along the highway between the mountains and the sea.

By the end of my first summer in L.A., I found myself at home alone on the big sofa watching Michael Jackson moonwalk with zombies on the TV when I decided I was sick of being scared. Sick of people worrying about me. I wanted to reclaim a piece of the brave young girl I used to be. I decided to face one of my greatest fears head on.

I got off the couch, grabbed my sunglasses, a sun hat and a blanket and headed out the door. I took the five-minute walk down to the beach and spread out my blanket and sat down on it, staring out to sea and ignoring the voices in my head that were urging me to return to the safety of the couch. The beach was not very crowded this day and I was able to get a patch of sand to myself. I sat cross-legged and as still as the Buddha as I waited for my heart rate to return to normal. After a while I lay back on my blanket and closed my eyes. It didn’t take long for the voices to fade, pushed aside by the squawk of sea birds, the pounding surf and the children at play. Without knowing exactly when, I fell asleep. When I woke up, the sun was much lower in the sky. I was thrilled! I shook out my blanket, folded it and tucked it under my arm. Not only did I go out alone without the world crushing in on me, I actually went to sleep outside in a public place. It was a huge deal for me and I was very proud of myself.

•   •   •

As my first summer began to draw to a close, Jane approached me about where I’d go to finish high school. At the moment she was between films and was able to be around a lot. But she had a film coming up that would demand all of her time. Troy had Tom to look after him and Vanessa went to her father. Jane didn’t want me to be left without support, so we discussed the possibility of boarding school. We visited several before deciding on a tiny school called Happy Valley halfway between Santa Monica and Santa Barbara in a town called Ojai.

It was close enough for me to come home every weekend if I liked. I was afraid I might not be able to keep up academically, since many of my schoolmates would be coming from some of California’s finest private schools. I was particularly concerned about my vocabulary and I told Jane so. She went out and bought me copies of
Huckleberry Finn
,
Les Misérables
,
Catcher in the Rye
,
Pride and Prejudice
and other classic works—real literature and a big step up from my usual diet of horror fiction. Before she and Troy dropped me off at school, Jane placed the books in my arms and challenged me to make a list of all the words I didn’t know, then find their meaning and come to her and use them properly in a sentence. I took her up on her suggestion. With patience and great effort, I made my way slowly through one of the books. To show Jane I was sticking to the challenge, I sent her a small card. It had black-and-white etchings of fairies on it. Inside I wrote, “These fairies are ethereal.”

Happy Valley was not the stereotypical boarding school. There were no uniforms or military-style codes of conduct. It was quite the opposite. If a band of hippies got together to create a boarding school, it would be very close to Happy Valley.

The setting was rural and the buildings were open and decorated with handmade artwork. Some of the classes included basket weaving and thrift store shopping. Field trips were often to the beach to catch some rays. Many of the students were from the Los Angeles area and were attending the school because of their parents’ hectic work lives. For me the school felt like an extended summer camp.

For the first time in a long while I made friends. I joined a clique of very wealthy Jewish girls from the valley. It didn’t take long for my Ebonics to give way to valley girl speak: “Grody!” “Gag me with a spoon.” “That’s gross!” I picked up a bit of Yiddish and spoke of “schlepping” and “kvetching.” I even got in the habit of sighing “Oy vey” whenever I was annoyed, with the naturalness of a little old woman from Israel.